She held Christian’s eyes. “You know what they’re like. They’re quite capable of tearing strips off each other, lacerating and painful, and they’re equally stubborn, so there’s no hope of reconciliation because neither will back down.”
Reaching for her teacup, she shrugged. “Over the last years, Justin has only visited Nunchance at Christmas, and then only for a fleeting visit on the day, to see me and Hermione and the rest of the family. I honestly don’t think he and Papa have exchanged a civil word in all that time.”
Sipping her tea, she considered the possibility that Justin might have sought refuge at Nunchance-perhaps staying out of their father’s sight-but she couldn’t see him being that cautious. More specifically she couldn’t see him reining in his pride to that extent, enough to hide like a felon in his family home. She shook her head and set down her cup. “Wherever Justin’s gone, he won’t be at Nunchance.”
Turning her head, she arched a brow at Christian. “So what are you planning?”
He met her gaze briefly, then looked across the table-at Hermione. Her sister remained oblivious, busy slathering marmalade on her toast.
“I have various avenues to pursue-I’ll let you know if I hear anything promising.” His gray gaze returned to her face. “Incidentally, everything we’ve uncovered about your brother’s life since we last spoke has confirmed his…somewhat novel direction. Far from being a wastrel and a hellion, he’s a son to make any father proud.”
Letitia merely nodded, wondering where he was heading with that comment-where he was trying to lead her.
He held her gaze, unhurriedly searching her eyes. “You don’t seem all that surprised that Justin should be the antithesis of his reputation.”
Ah. That was where he was heading. She smiled. “As a loving older sister, I can only rejoice at his exemplary sense.”
“Indeed. But you also know why Justin is as he really is.” He arched a brow at her. “I don’t suppose you’d care to enlighten me?”
She held his gaze, then shook her head. “Knowing that won’t help you find Justin.”
“I see.” Christian smiled easily and inclined his head. “In that case, ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to the hunt.”
He rose, bowed to Agnes, nodded to Hermione, then looked at Letitia.
Frowning, she asked, “What are you going to do?”
He looked down at her, let his smile grow edged. Softly replied, “You knowing that won’t help me find Justin.”
Her mouth dropped open, then she shut it with a snap and glared at him.
Unperturbed, he saluted her, then turned and walked out of the room.
Entirely confident that she would work out where he was going soon enough-and that she would follow.
He set out an hour later, driving out of Grosvenor Square in his curricle with his pair of prime chestnuts between the shafts. The long drive north was very familiar, yet the necessary tacking to get out of London’s crowded streets, then threading through the traffic clogging the Great North Road-the mail coaches, the wagons and drays-commanded his attention, so that despite the length of the journey, he had little time to think.
His ultimate destination was Nunchance Priory, but he wanted to time his arrival there, so he’d decided to stop at his home, Dearne Abbey, for the night.
He pulled up in the graveled forecourt as twilight was taking hold. His staff were ecstatic to see him.
“I’ll have your room ready in a jiffy, my lord.” Mrs. Kestrel, his housekeeper, all but rubbed her hands in glee. “And Cook set a roast on the spit the instant we heard you were back.”
Christian acknowledged her enthusiasm with an easy smile, then turned to his steward, hovering hopefully at the mouth of the corridor leading to the estate office, and gave himself up to business.
Later, he dined in solitary state-there was no one else, not even a distant impecunious cousin, in residence-then he elected to climb the stairs to the long gallery to reacquaint himself with the extensive, uninterrupted views across the fens to the Wash.
The view at the best of times was a lonely one. Mile upon mile of low, flat fields with the sea a distant silver-gray glimmer on the horizon. What houses there were were cottages, built low and largely swallowed by the never-ending fields.
The abbey was built at the very edge of the fenland, on a slight rise, with its back to the limestone cliff that marked the boundary of the low lying land. The house dominated its surroundings, a large Palladian mansion of perfect proportions built on the old abbey ruins by his grandfather.
Christian stood at one long window and looked out across the fields, into the deepening twilight. He owned much of what he could see, highly fertile land that guaranteed his and his family’s financial future.
Yet the huge house around him lay empty. For the first time since returning from the Continent and properly taking up the mantle his father had bequeathed him, he felt the weight of it. Sensed in his new life, as in this house, a lack, a hollowness wrapped in elegant calm, peaceful, serene, but empty.
Barren.
Folding his arms, he leaned against the window frame and looked out as the light faded and night slowly crept across the land.
This house-his house-was waiting. Ready, in perfect condition, fully staffed with people eager to serve. Yet he’d made no move to claim a bride, to bring her there, and start a family that would-once again-fill the corridors with laughter and gaiety.
The house was made for that, for an active, bustling family. Something his aunts, Cordelia and Ermina, would certainly remember with fondness, and look forward to seeing again.
That was what lay behind their disapproval, increasingly severe, of his continuing unwed state. They’d offered to help, of course, but when he’d refused, politely but categorically, they’d been wise enough to desist; stubbornness wasn’t solely a Vaux trait.
Not surprisingly, that thought brought Letitia to mind. Into his mind, filling it.
For long moments she was with him again; she was the only woman he’d ever envisaged there-standing beside him, her arm linked with his, looking out over his fields.
She was the only woman he’d ever imagined making a life with-making a family with.
The only woman he’d ever wanted in his bed-there or at Allardyce House.
He’d known the truth years ago, and it still remained true. She was the one his heart and soul desired.
Unbidden, the dreams he’d had of them long ago rolled back into his mind, dreams he’d spent years embellishing, building them, clinging to them through all the long years he’d spent deeply embedded in an alien culture, an enemy land. They’d been his inner refuge, his strength.
The emotions wound into those dreams roiled through him, unexpectedly intense. Reawakened and given new life by his recent hours with her, the her who’d stood at the center of those lost dreams.
For they’d been false…as had she.
His reaction to that fact was as violent as it had ever been. He still didn’t understand how, or why, she’d done as she had.
All that mattered was that she’d married Randall.
And killed his dreams.
Lowering his arms, he went to push away from the window frame, but stopped.
Looked out across the quiet night and wondered how much he still wanted those dreams.
She was now a widow; she still responded to him as she always had.
He no longer knew what she felt for him-something, certainly, even if it wasn’t what he’d thought. She hadn’t been in love with him as he’d been with her.
But did that matter?
The truth was…
For long minutes more he stood looking out unseeing, wrestling with the question of how much he was willing to give-to bend, to forgive, to accept-to recapture a semblance of those long-ago dreams.